His songs set the scene: it’s a cloudy, crisp afternoon in the English countryside. The pewter skies are barking a threat of rain, but the bite is just another blanket of fog. There’s a cigarette in one hand and a prickling memory in the other – an opportunity missed, a friendship faded, or a lover jaded.
This is the world of Will Cookson: a sentimental fingerpicker straight from the hushed school of Nick Drake and, to some extent, Jackson C. Frank. That is to say, his image and style are reminiscent of those crestfallen masters; his melodies and hooks, however, are by no means revolutionary – this is straightforward major-chord folk. To his credit, the songs do achieve a distinct mood and tone and his dexterity on the fretboard is impressive. This is a young artist with boundless potential; I’ll certainly be keeping my eye on him.
[download] Dead Poets, from the album Songs For A Sunday